


Choke

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: BDSM, Edgeplay, M/M, Slash, Strangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:10:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty chokes Moran, and Moran likes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choke

Standing there in his shirt-sleeves, his hair falling loose over his brow, he says, “Ask me to stop, Sebastian.”

But Moran doesn’t. Doesn’t say anything. Just kneels, naked, his hair darkened with sweat, his hands resting loosely by his sides. So still; so calm; so very at peace.

“Ask me.” Moriarty’s voice is calm too, unconcerned, but his gaze is unwavering and his hands grasping the leather belt and pulling it tight, tighter, even tighter, are strong.

Moran shakes his head, as much as he can anyway with the belt around his throat. He’ll be wearing high shirt collars for a while after this so as to avoid a scandal, although privately he’ll regard the bruises in the mirror; admire them – a mark of ownership on his skin, even if it’s only temporary.

Moriarty rolls his eyes, then stoops; gets down onto one knee so he’s almost level with the kneeling Moran. He does not release the pressure on Moran’s throat and Moran can’t quite get enough breath now; black is beginning to flutter in his vision.

“Ask,” says the professor.

“No,” croaks the gunman.

“Sebastian, you are aware that I could kill you.”

Moran’s eyes meeting his are all the answer he needs. He knows, and it’s not that he doesn’t care; doesn’t value his life – he does – but he also knows that Moriarty won’t.

His pet is rather taking things for granted these days, Moriarty muses, and gives another jerk on the belt that tightens it another notch.

Moran lets out a strangled gasp, and god, he’s hard now. If he was indecent before, now he’s positively obscene, kneeling there, aching for release. Yet he does not touch himself, though his hands are not bound. It hurts now, but he remains still; remains silent, save for the stuttering gasps he emits, but even that’s not by choice. He’ll not ask Moriarty to stop. He never, ever will, no matter how far this goes. He’s so close to the edge now – the edge of release, and the edge of unconsciousness, and at last just as everything starts to go very dark the professor releases the pressure.

Without the hold of the belt to keep him upright now Moran falls forward, into Moriarty’s arms, and he’s gasping for air, sucking it in down his bruised throat. His eyes aren’t quite focused but when he looks at the professor it’s still with such trust, and something that if it is not love then it comes perilously close.

“My good boy,” Moriarty says, low and gentle in his ear, and he seals his mouth over Moran’s as he pulls the gunman against him and wraps his fingers around Moran’s hot, hard prick. Three strokes is all it takes before Moran comes, spilling into the professor’s hand.

“James,” he says against the professor’s cheek.

“Shh.” Moriarty kisses his forehead, and Moran smiles, looking slightly dazed still, but contented.


End file.
